With Caution to the Wind
by odditycollector
Summary: What would you do with a fistful of wishes?


_This is a story written a while ago, so keep that in mind when reading it. It's late season four, the Sphere (remember that place?) doesn't echo when you say "hello," and there's still hope for season five. _

This was inspired by some throwaway line in some forgotten post, and a fairy tale that you might recognize. Every character in this story is used with permission. 

Also, keep in mind this tale has no historical accuracy, so it's not really all my fault. Thank you. This is the end of this rather extended authors note. 

**With Caution to the Wind**

Out somewhere in the lonely alleyways and dusty sideroads of the information superhighway, a lone figure wandered aimlessly. Her journey was slow, aided only by a phone-line and a stubborn mouse, but she paid little attention to the scenery, concentrating instead on sad, turbulent thoughts. Her despair was not caused by problems in her life, which was going almost as well as could be expected, but by a far more outreaching problem: the current state of her favourite television program. 

Despite popular opinion, she was not obsessed, merely... concerned. She saw the potential of the universe she often escaped to, and she saw, more clearly, the infuriating waste of it all. Every week, it seemed, those faceless untouchables in control of said universe took as many of the good and brilliant and wonderful things they could from it and flushed them down the studio toilet, and she couldn't understand how they managed, month after month, to use that strategy without clogging the pipes and getting it all spewed back in their faces. More significantly, she couldn't understand why they would choose, month after month, to dredge up contents from nearby toilets and use that instead. 

Because of her depressing lack of understanding, and because there was work she should be doing, Karen, for that was her name, resigned herself to meandering about the seldom used backroads of the internet, navigating off broken links and expired pages, and waiting patiently for the tumbleweed animation to load so it could blow desolately across her screen. Each location she went to merged with every other until the steady hum of her computer and the fade of colour on its screen created only a background blur to her misery. 

Karen chose another icon, only to see a 404 notification. As amusing as Angelfire was, she was certain she had memorized every random message. She sighed to herself, and went back. The endless barrage of porn ads and vanity pages was depressing her even more, and she had yet to think of a way to help her situation. She blinked a few times, and her overworked eyes struggled to refocus. She was doing herself no good. She sighed again, and started to bring the cursor towards the exit button. 

Karen frowned slightly as the cursor blinked out of existence for a second before continuing on its path to the corner of the browser. Because of curiosity born of a sulking boredom, she dragged the arrow down again, only to watch it disappear once more. She squinted at the solid black wallpaper, willing the hazy double images to sort themselves out. Then, coming into focus as suddenly as any magic image, a three-dimensional hand reached out at her. 

Karen was so startled she nearly fell. After recovering, she rubbed her eyes, went over the merits of caffeine at such a time, and looked back at the screen. 

The hand remained. 

Actually, as she studied it closer, she realized it wasn't a human hand at all. The palm and knuckles were a little too smooth, the nails too faint, the skin almost illuminescent. It might have belonged to a statue or, she allowed, some unearthly apparition. It spun slowly before her, a feat she had never seen equalled in any magic eye book. She found herself unable to look away. 

Finally, after deciding the hand wasn't about to dissolve into nothingness, she moved her cursor back over it. Like before, the white arrow vanished, but this time there was another change. The hand stopped suddenly in its revolution, palm turned up and towards her as though offering some great prize. A yellowed scroll faded into view below it. As Karen watched, it unrolled and a line of hieroglyphic-like symbols wrote across it, then merged and reorganized into a spidery script. 

_To those who want_

Karen waited for a minute, but nothing else happened. Unsure of what to do, she clicked the mouse. The scroll closed and then opened again. This time the symbols became a different phrase. 

_Ask and ye shall receive_

She clicked again. When the scroll reopened, she was surprised by the amount of characters that appeared, almost enough to be a paragraph. However, the strange language gave way to only three English words. 

_Fate obeys command_

Karen clicked the mouse, and the scroll repeated its motions, but there were no new symbols. Instead, the centre of the scroll was a large white rectangle holding a message from the server in stark, bold print. 

**If someone makes a webpage and gives it the wrong URL, does it really exist? **   
(Actually, we couldn't find the page you requested. Please check the URL.) 

Karen rolled her eyes. Figured. She found something possibly interesting, and she didn't get to see how it finished. She moved the mouse until it reappeared, and then, on an impulse, copied the file. Even if it had a glitch, it was the coolest thing she had seen for a while. There were some people she'd like to show, and perhaps, she thought with a grin, some wishes she'd like to make. 

*****

It is very important, if one wishes to make sense of this incident, to realize that Karen's favourite television show was Earth: Final Conflict, and that most other fans who follow the series agree with her hypothesis of the current mentality of those who shape it. But, although they all believe the show is falling apart, they vary on just what, exactly, needs to be fixed. 

There are several places throughout the internet where these fans gather to discuss such matters, as well as share bits of personal gossip and interesting things they've found. 

Karen frequented one such place. 

When Karen arrived, she displayed her prize and attracted an unusual amount of attention. She set it in a very visible place and went through the scrolls. After the last message disappeared, one puzzled looking fan approached her. 

"Is that it?" Seven asked. "What comes next?" 

Karen shrugged. "Nothing. It was broken when I found it." 

The other fan nodded to herself, and then grinned at Karen. "Does it really grant wishes?" 

"Maybe," said Karen, summing up all her knowledge of it in that one word. 

"So, you didn't even try?" She stared at Karen, who shrugged. "Hey, everyone!" Seven yelled, and those who had lost interest came back. "This is our chance to try another tactic!" Her eyes got really wide, as if looking into some wonderful future, and the crowd lapsed into silence. "It grants wishes," she whispered, just loud enough that all could hear her if they strained. Then she clapped her hands and shouted, "And what do we want?" causing the cluster of people to startle and moan. "What are we going to wish for?" she continued. 

There were a few murmured replies, and someone shouted, "World peace," from the background. 

The fan made an exasperated motion. "Let me start easier," she said. "Why are we here?" 

This time the audience could agree on an answer. " E:FC!" 

"So what do we want?" 

" Better E:FC!" 

"So what are we going to wish for?" 

The area erupted into pandemonium as everyone shouted a different answer. Several fistfights broke out. Karen debated taking the hand and sneaking away, but when she approached, Seven was smiling. 

"You're happy about this?" she asked in disbelief. 

"Of course. This is great. Just look at all the excitement!" 

Karen glanced around. There were lines of people hurling insults at each other, and she heard a person scream, "Leeshock is hot!" before bodyslamming someone else. She winced in sympathy. 

"You're happy about this?" she repeated, her brain still not willing to accept the concept. 

"Oh, you mean this?" Seven encompassed the noise and blood filled room with a sweep of a hand. "This is nothing. We've just got a few issues to work out." 

*****

"...so, we wish for more people to watch," Cynmar suggested. 

Tina shook her head. "You don't get a better show by getting more viewers, you get more viewers by making a better show." 

"Translation," Ryouko said, "More people tune in, The Powers That Be get the impression they're doing good by us. That their latest is what we want." 

Cynmar paled. "I withdraw," she said and sat down. 

Karen stretched and grabbed the empty Shreddies box that was currently being used as an impromptu talking stick. "What I don't get," she said, "is why we can't just ask for a better show. Just generally: better." 

Jeanne, who was sitting beside her, took the box and gave a forced smile. "Because," she said slowly, as though Karen had asked the same question many times already, which she had, "we're having a little trouble agreeing on what 'better' is, precisely." She tossed the box across the diameter of the circle that had formed around the hand. Amy caught it. 

"Maybe, the problem is that we're being too general. Maybe we should focus on something very specific; see if we can change that." 

"Like what?" 

"Well," Amy said, "I've always thought something should be done about Liam." 

*****

"I think," Duchess said, "that you are completely missing my point of how totally HOT Liam is." 

"So's Sandoval," Ryouko said. 

Duchess rolled her eyes. "What does that have to do with Liam?" 

"I'm just saying..." 

"You know, Duchess, you really shouldn't fantasize about three year olds," Trudy said, grinning "It's just wrong." 

Duchess made a move for the box, but Trudy had already passed it on, so she settled for a rude gesture. 

"I don't think I've liked Liam since the second season," said Cynmar. "I think-- I said, I think--" but the circle had gotten noisy as everyone discussed the second season. Cynmar waved the box over her head. "BOX!" she shouted. "BOX! BOX! BOX!" When everyone had quieted she continued. "I think Liam was fine when he was portrayed as the cute, uncertain, alien kid. But after season two, they ignored that. And he doesn't really work well as the lead, because he doesn't have any history of his own to fall back on. So he gets annoying. Or irritating." She glanced over everyone, and smiled almost sheepishly. "Or something," she said and passed the box to someone else. 

"I don't see why we need Liam at all," said Amy. "I mean, you could probably get better character interaction from this box." She stared down into it, then shrugged. "And it's empty. 

Seven took the box. "I think Robert Leeshock is a fine actor." She grinned slightly. "In every sense of the word. Liam's sometimes the only reason I keep watching." 

Karen stopped listening to the conversation. It had been going on for hours already, and little had been resolved. In her mind, the general approach would have been easier. She glanced at her watch. She didn't really have anywhere else to be, but glancing at her watch made her feel busy and important. She sighed for good measure. 

She sang her favourite CD under her breath, making up phrases when she couldn't remember the original ones. Jeanne gave her a strange look when she fit the word "marshmallow" five times into a KoRn song. After one by Nirvana somehow deteriorated into a Christmas carol, she stopped and checked on the Liam debate. 

"...and just because you don't like him doesn't mean..." 

She tuned back out. She found a ball point pen lying nearby and started doodling on her hand. She traced the creases on her palm until they were a pattern of small lines crossing and weaving into a spider's web or a thin mesh net. Like the Internet. The thought amused her for a few moments. Then she played tic-tac-toe on her arm and lost to herself a dozen times in a row. When that got boring, she started calculating pi on the floor. She had gotten pretty far when she was interrupted by an elbow in her ribs. 

Karen glared at Jeanne, who was staring at her impatiently. "Well?" Jeanne asked. 

"Well?" Karen repeated. 

"We're voting," Jeanne explained. "Are you for or against?" 

Karen thought about that. "Probably," she said 

"Good," said Trudy. "Then we're decided." There were cheers and grumbles coming from all over. Karen glanced around and noticed that Trudy was standing in the centre of the circle, suspiciously close to the hand. 

Trudy picked it up. "Okay," she said, "we're all okay with the fact that this is probably the most inane and desperate thing we've done, right? Just so we're clear?" There wasn't an answer. "Okay then. We wish that the lead of the television series Earth: Final Conflict is no longer a three-year-old alien wonderboy." She paused, and complaints were heard, but she held up a hand to hold them off. "So that Liam's character can be developed." She finished. 

Trudy put down the hand and walked back to the circle. It seemed like all the tension had been let out of the area with her words. Her wish, Karen realized. After all the pleading and arguing and ink-poisoning, a wish had finally been made, albeit a very odd one. It had seemed almost anti-climatic. She stared to relax a little. 

That was when Ryouko started to scream. 

"Oh! Oh!" said Ryouko in a loud, shrill, shaky voice. "It's moving!" 

The hand had been turning lazily since Karen had found it, but she soon realized that was not what had startled Ryouko. All five digits had previously been still, as if caught in a three-dimensional photograph, but now the delicate thumb was moving independently: bending inwards slowly and steadily. Karen stared until the thumb rested against the palm, the hand still rotating as if nothing had happened. She raised her eyes and met the gaze of someone across the circle. For a long time, no one did anything. The silence between them was a taught rubber band that no one was willing to break lest it fly in their direction. Then there was a quiet cough, and, like if cued, everyone muttered a previous engagement and left. 

Not one of them even glanced at the hand on the way out. 

*****

The days until the next episode of Earth: Final Conflict passed relatively routinely. No one talked about what had happened for the same reason as no one talked about a birthday wish. So, even though most of them couldn't remember any of their own coming true, the fans laughed with friends, made small talk with strangers, reviewed a few tales told by others, read more, procrastinated on their own, and generally ignored the feelings of excitement in the air. 

As the time got closer, Karen found her posts and speeches getting less and less coherent, despite her best efforts. Several others started saying such subtle things as, "I hear something big happens in this one," or, "Rumour says the new ep's gonna be cool." For the first time in almost seasons, the fandom allowed itself to be optimistic. 

When the day finally arrived, Karen forced herself to sleep in as long as possible, in an attempt to kill some of the hours before showing time. Still, she awoke far too early than she had wanted, giddy as a kid who still believed in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Great Pumpkin, and had received an invitation to their reunion. If it worked, if the wish came true, well, Karen had a whole list of things that might also come true. 

She decided the time was close enough and ran to her television, arriving in a graceful leap that made the couch groan, the house shake, and half her bones hurt. She pulled the remote from the couch and pressed a complex series of buttons intended to turn the TV on. 

It didn't work. She tried again, but the screen remained black. Panicked now, her heart beating the Macarena in her throat, she shook the remote, letting the one remaining battery fall back into the dusty intestines of the lumpy blue couch. 

With a muffled curse and an adrenaline induced speed, Karen was in the kitchen trying to locate new batteries. She found two in the vegetable compartment of the fridge beside a radish and her favourite pair of shoes, and was back in the TV room in a sprint that would have made Donovan Bailey envious. She grappled with the remote, shoving the batteries in the wrong way. She turned them around and replaced the duct tape. Then she tried turning the television on again. 

This time, a dog drove across the screen. Karen sighed and allowed her body to relax back into the couch. The crisis was averted. She looked at the clock. And only an hour and a half to spare. 

*****

That evening, while countless fans stared hopefully at millions of coloured pinpricks of light, the syndicated television series Earth: Final Conflict had an epiphany, of sorts. The viewers were shocked, and their hope faded into disbelief, disappointment, and finally disgust. It seemed they had gotten what they had wished for. 

It seemed they had made a terrible mistake. 

*****

"They made him human," stated Duchess. "Human!" 

"How can Liam be human and the Kimera saviour of the universe?" asked Ryouko. 

"How can he be either?" said Cynmar. 

Trudy gave a dry laugh. "You have to admit though, we got what we wanted." The group that had gathered silenced, and turned to her in confusion. She grinned at them, an unnerving cynical expression. "There's no more infant alien superhero. Now we've got an infant human superhero leading." She paused. "Or is that messiah? Gotta love character development." 

"This isn't what we wanted," shouted Duchess. "It's what you asked for!" A mob of angry people glared in Trudy's direction at the thought of finding a scapegoat for their new dilemma. Trudy said something about the wonders of democracy, but she was starting to look frightened. 

"I say we just fix the problem," said another voice from farther away. Amy was standing in the centre of where the previous meeting's circle had been, on top of the ripped and battered Shreddies box. She was holding the turning hand. "We don't want Liam," she said. She added, "As lead," as an afterthought, glancing at the Liam fans surrounding her. "And we don't want Liam human, and we don't want Liam with a new name. We don't want him!" 

"We do not want him on a boat, we do not want him with a goat...," someone muttered. 

Amy slammed the hand down onto the crushed remains of the cereal container when the pointer finger began to move. Everything was silent until it was tucked and still behind the thumb, as if another horrible thing would happen at once. When it didn't, Jeanne screamed, "What are you doing! You can't just grab it like that!" 

"It's the same wish we agreed on," said Amy. 

"Yeah? Did you watch what happened! And where are you going?" She yelled at Karen, who had started towards the hand. 

"It's mine," Karen said. "I found it, I brought it here. I think I get one wish." Jeanne said nothing, and Karen walked up to her prize. It looked the same as when she had found it, except that the thumb and index finger were bent down. She wondered for a moment what that meant. 

She picked it up carefully, not certain she trusted it not to be radioactive. She studied the fans before her. There was no longer anger in most of their expressions, only a grim resignation. She felt suddenly foolish, for trying to decide fate, for believing that a simple graphic could be capable of such a thing, for standing amidst a crowd and pretending she could save them further despair. She took a deep breath. 

"I think most of you will agree with me on this," she said. "I wish for more Taelon-arc storyline." She set the hand down as gently as she could. "I know it's general," she said to the silent masses, "but I wanted to get away from character issues. We needed to go in a new direction." 

As though agreeing with her, the hand chose a new direction; the pinkie finger folded, instead of the one next to the index digit. When it was done, it looked a little unnatural. Karen tried to reproduce the gesture on her own hand, but the two remaining fingers wouldn't keep straight. She was still struggling when Duchess took the hand. 

"While we're at it," she said, "let's get rid of the Jaridians." Then she put down the hand and walked away without another word. 

Several people moved from the audience, but Tina halted them. "This is not a plan," she said. "This is desperation. And desperation leads only to ruin." 

Karen considered Tina's words, and realized she had no idea what they meant. She nodded anyway. 

"Tina's right," said Seven, stepping around a group of people. "No more wishes. At least not until we know what's going on." There was some grumbling. "Next week," she continued, "if all these things happen, we'll know we're on to something. Right now, this could just be coincidence." 

No one seemed to have much faith in that possibility, but they began to leave anyway. Karen remained for an extra minute, staring at the hand. 

"It's okay, we're not ruined yet." Karen glanced up to meet Seven's gaze, and then averted her eyes. Despite her statement, there was more than a hint of despair in Seven's expression, and Karen became nervous. Seven was usually at the forefront of things, and Karen recognized the despair as one that often preceded apathy. She wondered how well the others were holding up, and winced as she suddenly realized the entire situation was probably her fault. 

"But." Seven forced a laugh. "I guess it didn't go exactly to plan." 

"Things do?" whispered Karen, still studying the image. 

"The best things don't, but neither do the worst," said Tina. Karen startled for a moment, not thinking anyone had heard her, but realized Tina had been replying to Seven. 

Seven offered a weak smile. "Don't worry," she said, "we'll think of something." Karen got the impression again of despair, or that Seven was privy to some sad secret she couldn't share. She wasn't sure she believed Seven's promise, but she hoped Seven did. 

She turned to exit with the last of the stragglers, looking back at the hand for a second before leaving. Only one finger remained, and Karen fought off a sense of foreboding. She could copy the gesture, but it wasn't a good sign. 

*****

A flurry of days went by, resulting in a week. Karen was again on the couch staring blankly at the screen. She had been there most of the day, getting thoroughly sick of cartoons. As the time for E:FC drew near, she guided her television to the right channel. The same dog drove by in the same convertible, marketing, bizarrely, cell phones. 

Karen was more tense than excited, and she awaited the new episode with a certain amount of dread. She had spent most of the week immersed in Real Life, where the strange superstition that had evolved around the pale graphic seemed absurd and silly: a thing best not to be considered. But here, with the couch and low, dingy ceiling defining three sides of her present world and the colours behind the glass screen the fourth, the powers of the revolving hand seemed as real as the visage of Benjamin Sisko that flashed across the boundary of his cubical universe and her own. 

The thought of the direction The Powers That Be had already been dragging her show and the bitter memory of the wish come true conspired in her mind to bring misery. White text rolled up the television, and a different dog took over: this one selling tacos. Karen tried to imagine how this new episode, minutes away, might salvage things, but all horizons seemed dark. 

*****

The show wasn't saved. Some things are too far gone. 

But neither had any of their hastily made wishes come true, unless the genii trapped within those folded fingers had learned subtlety. There had been more focus on the Taelon story and Liam had, though still the lead, been overshadowed by other characters with more real concerns. The Jaridians, however, were never such a presence, and the general consensus at the board was (decided with a large degree of relief) that the image was no more influential over the state of things than a poorly worded email addressed to the late Gene Roddenberry. 

"Pretty soon," Trudy quoted from a coffee mug, "we're going to look back on this, laugh nervously, and change the subject." Then she went off to browse some new fiction. 

*****

It's a characteristic of the temporal nature of the universe that life goes on. The hand and all its supposed magic was forgotten, except for a couple suggestions that it should be removed from the board, on grounds it was rude. 

There was one more episode left before the season was over and the promise of summer drew many away from this shared obsession. There was much speculation, but most of it involved what was hoped, and not what was known. 

The week turned slowly, but finally it was time to find out which of the guesses were right. Karen relaxed as best she could into a piece of furniture that probably should have been discarded before she was born, and she stared mindlessly at the thankfully dogless commercials that led into the show. 

*****

Like a pale dancer it turned in place, one appendage gracefully raised to tell them all what they could go do with themselves. 

There had been no agreement to meet there. In fact, judging by its recent neglect, one would have expected the particular area to have remained deserted until it finally drifted off the board. There were better, more popular places to go, if one wanted an audience with the other fans: places with interesting topics and without the reminder of foolish behaviour. 

But then, none had wanted a meeting. They had, each independently, drifted in, most displaying classic signs of shock and denial. It was a morose circle of people that slowly gathered, quiet this time for a very different reason. This was no unspoken and embarrassing hope a wish would come true; things had passed beyond any need for that. The silence was that which accompanies a sudden bereavement. 

And what was there to mourn? Liam was finally gone, as lead or otherwise, the Taelon story had progressed to completion, and the Jaridians were destroyed beyond recognition. They had gotten exactly what they asked for. 

Exactly what they had _wanted_, if only the show hadn't been destroyed beyond recognition as well. 

Karen sat in a disordered cross-legged position, rocking and muttering incomprehensibly to herself. She had flopped down on top of two others, recognizing the ink stains she had made weeks ago beneath them, and needing the comfort of at least that familiarity. 

How many minutes or hours she sat there, Karen was in no state to guess. Muffled sobs came from a few places, where people had advanced to a later stage of grief. Eventually whispered conversations broke out: the type of exchange you might find at a funeral. Several fans beside her were describing their favourite Liam moments. There was no shared pleasure in their discussion, no friendly debates to decide the best, only breaking voices and misty eyes and expressions that were far more bitter than sweet. 

The hand twirled ceaselessly in the centre of the circle they had formed. None had moved within the circumference, as if the power of the thing that had attracted them all to this place at this time repelled them as well, and they were held at a constant radius by this balance of forces. 

The image that Karen had found so fascinating was now inspired revulsion and fear. The fandom blamed it for their current situation more than those who had made the wishes, more even than Karen, who had brought it to them. It spun, surveying them, this thing of power, mocking the semblance of their control. 

"Can't we fix this?" said Cynmar. She said it softly, but after the long silence she might have been screaming. Most attention turned to her, although Karen's gaze remained locked on the hand. 

Cynmar shifted, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. "I mean," she went on, "we could wish for it to be fixed, couldn't we?" 

There was a coughing noise that might have been meant as scoffing laughter. "Why not?" said Trudy. "After all, our other ones turned out so well." 

"Well, if we're careful?" Cynmar glanced at the graphic, and then quickly looked away. "Maybe we just need to be more specific." 

A wave of murmuring swept around the circle. It seemed that, no matter what they wished for, there was no returning from this point, but human beings grasp even at small chances. 

Seven raised a hand. "Suggestions?" 

The suggestions were similar to the ones that were offered when they had first gathered around the hand. Shouts of "Start over in season three," and "Go again from season one," were interspersed with "Bring back Lili." This time around, however, there were many cries of "Save Liam." 

"Then let us all be counted among fools" said Tina. "Wishing for greater things will not save us. We must remove the results of those already made." 

"So... what? We wish we never made any wishes?" asked Amy. 

"No," said Duchess. "We wish that _thing_ was never found in the first place. I don't care where Tribune was going, they couldn't be stupid enough to do _this_!" 

Karen, who hadn't taken part in the discussion, instead being trapped in a rather unpleasant world of her own, suddenly jumped to her feet. She still swayed, and she broke eye contact with the hand only to glance around the circle with a vague, manic expression. "I want it to go away," she said unsteadily. "I need to make it all go away." 

Then she leapt into the middle of the circle, and started running. 

"Stop her!" screamed Seven. Those closest to Karen were already giving chase. "If she wishes for everything to just 'go away,' who knows what will happen!" 

Ryouko enveloped Karen in a flying tackle, dropping her to the ground. Duchess, trying the same manoeuvre a fraction of a second later, overshot and landed hard on the floor, but Amy and Trudy hit their target, injuring Ryouko more than Karen. 

Karen didn't even realize she was pinned to the floor. One of her arms was stretched in front of her, grasping for the image spinning calmly a few centimetres from her fingers. Her face was twisted into a mask of confusion, as her mind couldn't comprehend why the hand remained out of reach. She whimpered to herself, "...away...," and forced her muscles to extend even farther.... 

Another pair of hands lifted the image safely away, Karen's arm following it like the needle on a compass. 

All eyes were focused on Jeanne as she studied with a sort of curious detachment the thing that had caused so much trouble. "You know," she said, "I haven't _really_ been satisfied with the show since season one." She looked casually about the collected fans, who were staring at her with the appearance of hostages facing a madman with a gun. Jeanne traced one of her fingers over the last upright one on the graphic. "And I know just what's missing," she continued. 

"I wish," Jeanne started, and there was a outbreak of movement. Those still outlining the wide circumference ran towards her, and Karen's attackers struggled to get untangled from each other. "For Boone." Then a tsunami of angry humanity hit her, and she was pushed to the ground, those behind her tripping over the still writhing mass that was the first dogpile. 

The image was thrown from Jeanne's hand. The pale graphic landed sideways, its spinning translating to a rolling motion. Karen watched with empty eyes as the last finger was drawn into a frail, useless fist. 

*****

Courtany was bored. 

Very very bored. She was on a level of boredom only reached with particular determination: past the degree of mindless monotony that inspires people to find out if things like www.fluff.com exist, and a whole plane of existence over the kind of tedium that causes people to turn to paperwork in desperation. Her current state of mind was to boredom what active loathing was to mild indifference, what watermelon were to grapes, what Steven King was to the written babbles of a kid failing grade five. 

She was considering actually clicking on the popup ads. 

It was either too early or too late to be awake, depending on one's perspective, which meant that even the hour-long dating service commercials had ended on the two channels her television received. The internet was her only real option for entertainment, but it was completely failing at being anything resembling amusing. 

She decided to give it one last chance out of a sense of loyalty; it had, after all, been good to her over the years. She clicked on a link at random... and ended up at a slow loading page that was mostly black and mostly empty. Boooring 

Well, there was always Minesweeper. She had threatened the irritating, yellow smiley face with a rematch a few weeks ago, and it hadn't looked properly afraid. "It isn't going to be a shutout forever," she promised, and began to edge the mouse pointer to the corner of the screen. 

A flash of something caught her attention. Courtany studied the screen, but she didn't notice anything except that that the cursor had vanished. She muttered a few things under her breath that would have made more sense had the computer actually had parentage to call into question, and moved the mouse through several jerky spirals. When it finally reappeared, she brought it up to the exit button, hesitating only to glare at the browser before closing it. 

And then there was a hand. Courtany blinked in surprise. There hadn't been a hand before, but, after all, the page still wasn't finished loading. The graphic seemed three-dimensional, a better quality hologram than any Courtany had personally seen, and it spun in an endless wave. 

Courtany's brain was several hours away from things like self-consciousness, so she waved back. Then she saved the image onto her computer and opened her instant messenger. 

Janine was online, but then Janine was always online. Courtany had asked her about it once, and Janine had said it involved ESP, caffeine, and a complete lack of a life. But it came in handy at times like this, when Courtany wanted to say something and everyone else on her Buddy List was probably asleep. 

Janine was one of her better online friends. If it wasn't for her taking pity on the TV challenged Courtany, Courtany wouldn't have the new Roswell episodes sent to her every week. Which would mean she'd have to actually pay for cable, instead of saving for, well, pizza, usually. 

Courtany clicked on an icon and a text window appeared. 

_ Hey Jani, _she typed,_ there's something you've gotta see...._

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_And that would be the end. _

For the record, I don't watch Roswell, but I have a friend who kept complaining to me over the last year, so it sprung into mind. 

Again, I'd like to thank everyone who volunteered for this. Otherwise I would have been talking to myself the whole time. I'm not sure my interpretation of how the web works is very accurate, but it's more fun this way. 

I'd also like to thank/apologize to Gene Roddenberry (more for what Tribune did to his idea than anything I did) and W.W. Jacobs, but as they're both dead, I'm not sure I can. 


End file.
